


Spider's Nest

by strawberrywine17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Memory Loss, NO DEATHS, NOT amnesia, Post-Season/Series 03, Sickfic, Sickfic of the brain, not terminal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrywine17/pseuds/strawberrywine17
Summary: Something was wrong with Sherlock.In fact, something had been wrong with Sherlock all week. John didn't want to believe it, found it was easier to ignore it, but had Sherlock ever made things easy? When the detective has to be rushed to the hospital after an incident on a crime scene, John's left wondering if he's ever going to stop fearing for the man's life. Nothing will never be the same again when they are both thrust into the world of learning to heal after Sherlock experiences blood on the brain; the doctors had said there would likely be memory problems, but this is far beyond either of them would have ever expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Sherlock fic! I decided after rewatching the series that it was high time I actually wrote something for it. However! Please note that the medical conditions (primary arachnoid cyst and blood clot) involved in this fic are very real, very scary complications. I have experienced both, and in fact still have the cyst in my skull (in my case (and Sherlock's case) the cyst is not dangerous, not cancerous, and not a tumor just fyi). All that is here are things I know from personal experience and through my own subjective view. This was written to test out what would happen if something happened to Sherlock's mind, and just how he would deal with the damage. And because I quite frankly love angst c:
> 
> If you want to see what the cyst looks like, just search "arachnoid cyst CAT scan" on google (that "CAT scan" part is important if you don't wish to see actual surgery on it, and note that a CAT scan flips in reverse; if it appears to be on the right side, it is actually on the left).
> 
> Set after the end of season three, contains spoilers, and does not include romantic JohnLock (slash). It is also not a terminal!fic because with proper treatment, neither conditions are diseases that lead to death, though complications and issues may occur that make them fatal. I do not own Sherlock.

Something was wrong with Sherlock.

In fact, something had been wrong with Sherlock all week. The man was flighty, more flighty than usual, flirting from one area of attention. Sometimes, there seemed to be somewhat of a film over his eyes; John caught him a few times staring blankly at his computer screen, finger poised over the trackpad in anticipation of doing something, but he simply didn't follow through. He hadn't said anything in those moments. After all, who knew what was going on in that brain of his? He didn't think he'd ever figure it out, and so oftentimes he didn't even try.

Mary, though- Mary was smart. She was quick. She was the one that first pointed out the discrepancies to John, had first made him aware of the way he would sometimes stumble over his words or do things twice or tell them he had done something months ago when, in fact, the event had occurred merely days ago.

It wasn't that John wasn't paying attention. It was that he was simply more paying attention to _other_ things. To his unborn child. To the video of Moriarty. To settling into a domestic life once more, only now pockmarked with the cases and murders that both he and Sherlock craved frequently instead of saturated with them as it used to be. As such, Mary was an absolute _blessing._ She and Sherlock were quite alike, and that combined with the fact that she seemed to just _get him_ like even John sometimes had trouble doing, was enough for concern to finally etch its way into his chest. If Mary was worried, then there was definitely cause for him to feel the same.

Yet against his better judgement, the doctor said nothing. Perhaps Sherlock was coming down with a cold- maybe he was still getting over his ordeal with Magnussen, maybe he was worried about Moriarty, maybe he just wasn't getting enough sleep- anything at all that John could think of to explain this odd, erratic behavior was good enough for him. It meant that he could keep an icy, cold, familiar fist from closing around his heart. It meant that he didn't have to lose his breath and end up gasping and panting at the possibility of something being wrong, _really_ wrong, _lose Sherlock a third time_ wrong.

And so he ignored it.

It wasn't like the detective was going to allow John to check him over anyway. It was best, plain and simply, to let him figure it out for himself. Besides, it didn't appear to be that worrisome. Truly, John was more afraid that the man was going to collapse out of exhaustion or malnutrition before anything else got to the seeming-immortal detective. Anything else out of the ordinary would have been dealt with and taken care of, of that John was certain.

Mary, though, was not so convinced.

“Take him out,” she insisted one night, talking over his attempts to help her with dinner, batting his hands away whenever he tried to take control of the meal she had put together that had been insisted on being absolutely fantastic. John didn't exactly view it in the same way. He wasn't very trusting of recipes that called for steak marinated in carbonated drinks. That didn’t mean he could refuse whatever Mary and her swollen belly decided was delicious, however, and so he tried not to wrinkle his nose at the strange smell of the platter being carried to the dining table. “You need to take him out and see how he reacts to normal things.”

The doctor snorted a bit and shook his head. “So he's a bit tired, what am I supposed to do? Push him like a dog until he finally decides to rest?” He swooped in beside his wife to snatch up the bowl of potatoes on the counter before she could protest. “Sherlock isn't like that. He’ll just push himself harder because I'm there.” Setting the bowl down, he waited for Mary to join him with a container of warm peas; they were set down and he held her seat for her, pushing her in gently, ever the gentleman.

“Thanks, dear, but-” Mary shook her head quickly. “I know and you know that something isn't right. I don't know what, but it isn't. So take him out for awhile! Call up Greg, see if there's any case you two can get involved in.” A small smile quirked up the corners of her mouth. “Besides, it's been nearly a month since the last one. I'm not stupid, John. You'd be just as happy to get a case as he would be.”

That _was_ true… “Fine,” he groaned out. “Fine, fine, I'll take him out. Just don't be upset with me when I come home to tell you nothing's wrong, okay?”

The smile got a little bit bigger and her warm hands clasped over his. “I won't be.”

He gave a little grumble, though the act itself was severely hampered by his sweetness to her (former assassin or not, he still loved the woman). It didn't take long before they both began eating, letting their chatter drift to more conventional, menial topics. John definitely didn't complain. Though when their evening eventually wound down and he was tucked up close to Mary that night, arm gently around her waist as they laid on their sides, he couldn't close his eyes without see Sherlock’s face. Somewhere, deep down in his stomach, he knew something was wrong. Had he believed in silly superstitious things, he might have thought about a red string of fate- a connection between Sherlock and him that would always, always, inevitably bring them back to each other, would keep them close. After all, how many times had one of them suddenly showed up in just the nick of time to save the other’s life? But John was not superstitious, never had been, and he didn’t plan on starting now.

The night dragged on quietly but he still felt his stomach flip over every handful of seconds. It was the same gut wrenching feeling as when Sherlock had been about to take that damned pill with the first case they had ever worked together on; the same nauseating turning in his abdomen as red dots had glowed on a pale face that thrown into shadows from the reflections of a pool, or the sight of a black coat much too close to a gloomy sky, and even the silence in Magnussen’s penthouse that had been just _too much._

Something was wrong, _so wrong,_ but _what?_

Suffice to say, John didn't slept well that night.

{...}

Sherlock, despite what John might think, was not totally unaware of what was happening in his body. The week was passing slowly, oh so slowly; how could he not notice things?

He slept and ate more than usual to combat the odd dizziness and fogginess that had descended over him. It was the best he knew to do. If John picked up on it, he was intimately aware of just how protective the man would get; he'd gone absolutely mental the last time Sherlock had a mild cold, not even enough to give him a fever. The detective swore he could still taste the awful soup John had attempted to cook up; while he was usually rather amazing at the culinary arts, somehow the doctor was entirely rubbish as creating soup.

His footsteps were soundless in his flat, bare feet running over a newspaper he'd tossed to the ground, avoided the corner of the coffee table, curled around a pen so that the weight would be off of the damnable plastic and not make his foot ache, among other items. The flat wasn't exactly as… Clean… As it had always been. No, now Sherlock was busy, always too busy, thinking and working and dredging up memories from his two years away from London in futile attempts to make a connection to the horrid video that had sent him careening right back into John’s life less than five minutes after he had left it. And seeing how John had always taken care of the meaningless task of straightening up the flat, it wasn’t exactly easy for him to get into the routine of it now.

Still, busy as he was, he was taking slightly bit more than minimal care of himself _only_ in attempts to keep whatever was ailing him at bay. It felt like he was functioning properly, yes, but not quickly enough. He moved as through a haze, a thick blanket muffling the world around him and cotton binding up the gears in his mind. Thoughts came and deductions were made but… They were slower. Slower was bad, slower meant moments and minutes lost to the failures of his own capacities, especially the situations in which he couldn’t pin the blame on anyone else. The abnormally decreased speed of thought made him feel stupid.

He was not stupid. He was far from it.

...But that didn't mean he didn't make stupid decisions.

Sherlock wouldn’t speak of it to John, or Mary, or Molly, or Mycroft, or Greg, or anyone at all _._ They would worry, he'd be sent to the hospital, and he did _not_ like hospitals. It was too much work to deal with that, especially considering all of the current circumstances. Time off was something the man wasn't willing to spend, even if he could afford it- which he couldn't. Time, he needed time; a hospital in this situation would be worth nothing at all but wasted time. The same went for asking John to check him over. Well, that, and also the fact that he didn’t think he’d ever allow his own pride to stoop so low as to admit to his best friend that he wasn’t alright unless he absolutely had to.

However, when his phone chimed just before sundown, he plucked it from the coffee table immediately to read a text (though not without rubbing his temple, damn that light pounding at his head, the words looking like they were swimming) from John.

_Greg’s got a case. A funny one, I think. You up for it? -JW_

It was strange how Sherlock’s lips twitched up faintly at that question. It amazed him that John was bothering to ask, and even that he still wanted to take cases in general. It was… A good feeling, really, especially after everything that had happened.

_Doubt that. But yes. I'm coming with a cab. -SH_

_I'll be ready. -JW_

Yes, this would make things better. Clear his head, get him out of the rut, ignore… whatever was going on with his body. It sounded nice, to solve a mediocre case and John, to see the amazement in his eyes once the murderer had been narrowed down to one person instead of the whole populace of London. John Watson was truly magnificent like that.

Turning abruptly, Sherlock made his way back to the table. His laptop lay open, the frozen image of Moriarty’s face staring at him with blank eyes. As far as he could tell, he had gone through the whole thing, picked it apart bit by bit, but had gotten virtually nowhere in terms of progress. Working on a case now could do little but help his slow thought process, likely brought on by lack of sleep or nutrition or some other aspect of his personal wellness that he might have inadvertently neglected. He reached out to close the lid.

He missed.

Sherlock frowned. He took a step forward and reached out again. Missed again. How odd. Perhaps he had had too much coffee… What coffee had to do with motor skills and depth perception to flip down the lid to a computer he wasn't sure, but the the thick, syrupy fog that clung to his thoughts made it too slow to come to any reasonable explanation in any reasonable amount of time. Rather than admitting anything to himself, he simply ran his fingers over the wood of the table, up heated metal, and pressed down until the click of the lid registered awfully slowly through what felt like fur in his ears.

Without further ado, the detective began to get ready, pulling on his shoes and quickly forgetting the strange incident. There was work to be done and a mystery to solve, and that would always be more important than whatever his transport decided to afflict him with. And so he turned his mind from it. Sherlock cleaned off the table of his experiments, pulled down the papers from his old, solved cases from the horrible wallpaper, and generally tidied up the place, if only to appease John in case he was to come over after they visited the crime scene. It would be a treat, Sherlock supposed, as long as John wasn't inclined to inquire if he was going to search for a new roommate. The first- and so far, last- time that had happened, it hadn't exactly gone well.

Sherlock had since replaced the lamp in apology to Mrs. Hudson.

His eyes lingered over the horrid thing, bright cerulean with bright yellow flowers wrapped up the sides. It was definitely not in his taste, but when he had asked his landlady for a color (with no other context) she had said blue; this had been the only one of the right color in the three shops he had searched. John had yet to say anything about it, but it was obvious he always tried to hold back a laugh whenever his gaze drifted to it. At least Mary had liked it the last time she visited. ...It wasn't _too_ awful, he supposed.

Fitting on his scarf and then shrugging into his coat, Sherlock bounded down the stairs and into the slightly chilly early-April air. It filled his lungs sweetly; it felt like only days ago that he had been bed bound, taking his surgeon’s advice about resting and not pushing himself after being released from the hospital just to appease John’s worry, even though he had been active and on his feet for several months now. He didn't think he'd ever take being able to hail a taxi by himself for granted ever again.

The ride to John’s flat was short, very short, the distance small enough he easily could have walked. He didn't know where the case was, though. The both of them would be grateful for speed in the long scheme of things, especially if it happened to be in the other side of the city. It had been a long time since either of them had worked on a case. Not so long as since Magnussen, but long enough that both men were itching to go at it again, eager enough that speed was key. It was no doubt the reason for John’s seemingly random proposal.

The detective’s fingers tapped against his leg, relaying some rhythm of a new symphony he’d been learning to play on his precious violin. Before the symphony was over, the cab pulled over. Sherlock told the man to wait, then made his way up to the flat that John and Mary shared. His coat billowed out behind him like the mane of some great beast, a character in a movie with a purpose and a goal and a reason to live. Sherlock didn’t know about the first two, but he certainly had the last; the reason was written in the bright blue eyes and the locks of graying hair that opened the door to him, a reason that would never go away.

Quirking the faintest of smiles, Sherlock nodded to the doctor. “Hello, John,” he said politely. Then, raising his gaze to peer behind him, he gave a short wave. “Hello, Mary.”

“Hi to you too, Sherlock,” the woman replied before John could, standing just behind the man. “You two run along and have fun then. I do think I’m going to get myself a snack…” The detective tilted his head a bit as he heard a low groan from his long-time partner, glancing between the two with interest. The mini mystery that he didn't bother trying to figure out on his own did not go unsolved for long; Mary quickly continued. “Yes, a _big_ snack, John, so if the skip is still open after you’re all finished, I would very much appreciate you stopping by.” She grinned. “It’s not my fault your baby is a carb junkie.”

Sometimes, in moments like these, Sherlock really wondered how John could possibly want to leave it all behind in search of a murder. It was so… So _domestic._ So _normal._ The man had preached about wanting to be normal before, in the beginning years, and the detective only had to think back on the timeline of events to see _why_. Between murders and near-death experiences, there was nothing normal about Sherlock. He didn't blame John for wanting something other than what he could offer. Then again, neither was there anything normal about Mary, but at least she was not-normal in a perfectly sane way.

And yet… Seeing the cautious grin on John’s face, the way there was no limp, no shake in his hand, nothing that suggested he _ever_ wanted anything _close_ to normal… He couldn’t say he would be happier if the man suddenly left all their old habits behind to live a regular life with his expecting wife.

If he could have seen himself, he would have been irritated by the soft gleam that shone in his eyes. Gratitude? Happiness? Contentment? Whatever it was, it was there, and he had no idea of it.

“Right, well, we better get going.” John’s voice cut through the thick of his thoughts. “Greg wants to wrap this one up quick; has the potential of spreading fear among the city, y’know, one of those sort of cases.”

Sherlock stepped back. He returned down the steps to the porch. “I’ve got us a taxi.” He didn’t wait for the doctor to catch up; he could hear footsteps behind him, oh so familiar footsteps, and he didn’t need any other reassurances. Once on his usual side of the taxi (the right side) he reached out to grab the handle and… Didn't land it. A string of irritated expletives ran in a stream through his head; he was able to grab it the second time, though. Sleep, yes, he’d have to actually sleep tonight. No use in worrying John by slipping up and letting him see his sudden lack of coordination. It just wouldn’t do.

Slipping into his seat, he couldn’t help but to lean over towards John once the other man had gotten in and given the address to the cab driver. He expected him to pull out his cell phone and the doctor didn’t disappoint, pulling up a series of pictures sent by Lestrade. The effect of it was hampered a bit by the fact he had to squint, the headache pulsing behind his eyes making them sensitive to the electronic light. “Double murder,” John said, the pictures showing two bodies at least ten feet apart, enough blood spilled to make pools and rivers and oceans on the cement. A car park, Sherlock recognized, if the rows and the darkness of the scene were anything to go by. “No murder weapon, no DNA currently found, and no sign of the victims’ cars.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly. It would be easy to solve, he was sure, but it definitely was interesting. “Mm… Glad Lestrade finally has something worth investigating.” From the corner of his eye, he watched the doctor sport a little grin, entertained by the comment.

The rest of the drive was a quiet blur. Silence reigned, but not uncomfortably. Sherlock’s gaze drew out the window, watching the lights pass by in a brilliant blaze of oncoming evening. They seemed to blur together, make his head pound, but curiously, he continued to look out, almost unaware that it would help to look away.

The vague thought slipped in and out of his mind that yes, he wouldn't mind doing this for the rest of his life. If that was possible, he was absolutely certain that he couldn't come up with any better alternative than sitting beside John with nothing negative between them, always on their way to their next adventure.

The moment the cab rolled to a stop the both of them hopped out, though the detective sported a bit of a stumble as he did so. That was unusual but again, he brushed it right off. They took the lift up to the third floor hardly saying a word, and was immediately greeted by Greg- who had, apparently, been waiting for them.

“You made it,” the DI said with what sounded like relief. “Good. This one is bloody strange, I'll be honest there. It's just right over here.” They all fell in step and headed to the crime scene; the tape was graciously lifted by one of the police officers to allow the trio in. “Watch where you step. There's… stuff… everywhere.”

“John said there's no leads,” Sherlock inquired. “At least, not as far as standard procedure.”

He was rewarded with a nod. “Yeah, yeah, that's right. And before you go off about it all being simple and we’re all buffoons, just know that I've tried absolutely everything I know of to get somewhere with this. Within reason, of course.”

“You mean you did what you could without risking getting fired,” Sherlock corrected. The DI paused for a moment, then gave a noncommittal shrug.

“...Possibly.”

“So you called John, and here we are.” He nodded to himself. Stepping over an arm to one of the victims, he situated himself in a small area not affected by the blood, unwilling to get his shoes wet or to spread something that could be crucial evidence. Greg offered a pair of plastic gloves; Sherlock snapped them on and crouched down, beginning a very careful, thorough investigation.

Lestrade shook his head. “No, ah, John called me.” Sherlock glanced up for a moment, frowning. That was unusual. But not worth worrying about at the moment. What mattered was getting to work.

His movements were slow and unsteady as he worked his fingers and eyes around the first victim. There was something strange, something _different_ and _important_ about this. Something he needed to figure out. The woman still had her purse. Her careful hairstyle had had havoc wreaked upon it, and a few scratches were on her chin, not too much higher than where the throat has been slit, but not cleanly, as was per normal. There was something about all of this, some conclusion that would remain just out of his grasp until he pieced together the puzzle.

His mind was blank.

A high pitched whine buzzed in his ears, making it hard to concentrate. It didn't fit with the environment. Jerking a hand up, he pressed the heel of his hand into one of them, grinding, trying to rid himself of the dreadful noise. It didn't go away but it did fade into a hum, clinging to the edges of his thoughts.

Sherlock’s hand dropped. He teetered forward, reaching out to move a lock of the victim’s long, silky blonde hair. Slick, the hair was slick, why was it slick? Blood! No, no. Blood would have been obvious on blonde hair… What was it then? Conditioner? Rain? It was sunny, had been sunny for the past two days, where-?

He couldn't think. The detective lurched to the side in a daze as his balance failed him, though it all seemed slow, much too slow to him. Despite the overwhelming dizziness he didn’t fall, using the tips of his fingers to right himself, water from the ground wetting them. Wait, no, that wasn't water, that was blood. How could he have mistaken _that?_

Bright. It was too bright. White, bright, blinding light…! Bright light shouldn't be in the middle of a multistory car park!

Why not though? Why was that wrong? It. Wasn't. Connecting.

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice drifted to him as though through molasses, or perhaps deep waters. Which would distort the sound more? He didn't know, he couldn't remember; he couldn't care less.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

“What? Oh, uh, yes- yes, my headache is gone.”

“Your what?”

“Headache. ‘S gone.” And it was. He reached up to press one of his temples- his fingers found his chin instead but nonetheless, he let them travel up and up and up until he was fairly certain they were where he wanted them to be and rubbed lightly. He couldn't feel his right hand, the whole limb gone numb but somehow also feeling fat, bloated. As if someone had dosed that side with morphine and then inserted a bike pump just below his shoulder, pushing air straight in, making his skin stretch and his knuckles useless and ballooning the whole length of it. It only felt like that.. That actually scenario would be illogical and impossible.

Wouldn't it be?

Sherlock shook his head and immediately decided that was a bad decision. The light grew until he was absolutely certain someone had smoked about a hundred packs of cigarettes in less than five minutes, the white tendrils making the air hazy, gray, and hard to breathe. Reaching into his coat pocket he seemed to remember that he was staring at a dead body and should be examining it. The little pack of tools he always carried was quickly extracted.

His fingers reached to pull the magnifying glass from one of the compartments. It wasn't working though. They grasped and tugged but even with what felt like an inordinate amount of effort, it didn't slide free. The left corner of Sherlock's lips quirked up. This… This was… Funny. Here he was, knelt in front of a dead body, on a case only _he_ could solve, and he _couldn't get his bloody magnifying glass out._

He couldn't stop himself as he let out a noise nothing short of a _giggle_. “John-” The detective snorted another little laugh, raising the bloated feeling arm to his mouth, trying to stifle the sound. “John, c’mere. Look, look. I can't- I c’n’t get it out…!”

A warm body at his side informed him of the doctor’s presence. “Sherlock? Sherlock, what in hell’s name is wrong with you? What can't you get out?” He was rewarded with another awkward little laugh as Sherlock demonstrated, hand weakly fluttering around the instrument.

It was just so _funny_ here in the bright, foggy, lilting car park. Thinking be damned, it was _funny._

“Can't- I can't it, it's so- sh's dead, Joh’, dead! Little gol’fis’ gotta… Gol’fish is… Dead!”

He was suddenly grasped and tugged upwards. The feeling was rather unpleasant; Sherlock’s stomach churned and he swayed something awful, swinging his arms out for something to grab, something to stop him from falling over, even though _that_ would be funny too. A pair of hands were there to grab his shoulders, keeping him upright, and he knew he should have been able to make a connection to who those hands belonged to, but quite frankly didn’t give a damn.

The fingers that had pulled him from the ground were suddenly on his face and he found himself looking into John’s eyes. Oh, his beautiful eyes. They were his reason, weren't they? His reason for something. Or was his reason another thing instead…?

“Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Can you smile for me?” Smile? Oh, Sherlock would always smile for John, and more. He laughed again. Did John have four arms? That would be amazing. John was special enough- maybe he was just special in a different way than Sherlock was. “Yeah, yeah, there you go. Just like that. A great big smile, yeah?”

He stretched his lips up until he could barely see out of the squints of his eyes. Only… only it was one eye that was squinting. The other one seemed perfectly normal, as open as ever. It felt odd, but then again, so had everything since he had come out to the case. And when everything was odd, that meant that oddness had to be normal.

Suddenly, John let out a string of expletives, words he knew that he knew, but couldn't make any sort of sense about them. “Lestrade!” John called, and Sherlock rolled his head to the side, intrigued in seeing that _that_ was who was holding him up. What a nice man he was, the detective decided. “Lestrade, get an ambulance! He's- holy shit, I think he's having a _stroke!”_

“A stroke?!”

“Yes, a stroke! Look at his face! His right side- everything is drooping. No smile over there. He's unbalanced, he- he's slurring his words- get an ambulance!” Sherlock didn't hear if Lestrade said anything else. The warmth left his skin and he found himself swaying once again until John replaced the DI’s support.

“Sherlock, I need you to do a couple more things for me, okay? Just a couple more thi- no, no, look at me.” Sherlock’s gaze had begun to wander, but it quickly snapped back. “There we go. I want you to put your hands out straight in front of you, palms up. Okay? Like this.” He stepped back and lifted his arms, palms towards the roof, at even level with each other. “Close your eyes and do it just like this, okay?”

He mumbled something that even he wasn't sure the meaning of. But he did as John asked, always as John asked, hands straight and out and- oh, well, that was funny, wasn't it? Noticing some sort of discrepancy, Sherlock opened his eyes just a little bit, squinting, and saw that his right arm was lower than his left. He couldn't move it up higher. It simply kept drifting down as though a weight had been put on it. Perhaps the pumped air under his skin was not air, but water, or lead, muscles tired and unwilling to hold up the weight of the limb. “Shit!” John cursed again, and he couldn't figure out why.

“Wh’s wrong?” he asked, aching to reach up and touch John, to wipe away the worry from between his brows. His right wouldn't cooperate, so he did as he wanted with his left hand, awkwardly patting the army doctor’s head, movements heavy and stiff. “ ‘S funny, Joh’, so funny…!”

Something entered the former soldier’s eyes that Sherlock couldn't read. It was odd, to not be able to read John. He always had before. Almost always could. But this time it was impossible. There was not much time to wonder about that, though. His right leg gave out under him all of a sudden without his knowledge or consent; John was right there again, holding him up, shifting his weight over on purpose to keep him standing.

“No, Sherlock, this is _not_ funny! You're having a damn _stroke!_ ” A few short breaths whistled in between the man’s teeth. “Look at me, now. Answer me this. What was the color of the lady in our first case together? What color was she wearing?”

What color? Sherlock wanted to laugh at that. Colors were stupid. You were supposed to pick one and call it ‘favorite’- to claim as your own for some strange reason. But a case, yes! A case! Sherlock liked cases, and John did too, didn't he? Weren't they on their way to a case right now? He vaguely wondered when their taxi was going to arrive before trying to focus.

“Ah… many,” he finally said. John just blinked and so he continued. “Many, many cases, Joh’, s’ many c’ses, ‘s fun…! Wh’re’s our cab f’r th’ case?”

“You didn't answer the question. What was the color? The lady with the suitcase, the one that spelled out ‘Rachel’, the serial suicides. Don't you remember?”

Sherlock answered with a laugh and the lilting of his body much too far to the side to be anything less than concerning. Luckily, in the distance, the both of them heard the sound of sirens until they came closer and closer, echoing shrill and high off the cement walls of the car park. His hand left John to shove against his ears, the other one following much more slowly, but doing the same. It was loud, too loud, but the headache didn't reappear, either ignored or given up by his brain. He didn't care which.

“Right, come on then, Sherlock,” the doctor beside him said. He grasped the detective’s arm and guided him over to the shrieking thing, the back doors flying open and a gurney quickly lowered to the ground. “Let me see your coat, you’re-” A whine of protest flitted in his throat as warm hands pulled the familiar thick material from his shoulders. “It's alright, I'll give it back. Promise.” Soon the scarf was gone too and he was pressed onto the gurney, the suddenly different perspective of the world making him feel upside down instead of laid flat.

Something was wrong. Something was oh so wrong, so awfully, horribly wrong. It wasn't funny anymore. His head turned from side to side, face drooping, eyes glazed and searching.

“Joh’... Jo-ohn…!”

Fingers curled into his and he managed to roll his head to see the man he was looking for. “Don't worry, I'm coming with you,” he said, voice weirdly unsteady. “Just- just breathe, okay? It'll be alright, Sherlock. Breathe for me. Breathe.”

Perhaps John had said something to the paramedics then, perhaps he didn't need to. Whatever had happened, they both were suddenly in the ambulance and on the move, the doctor’s hand holding his, talking to him even as the crew worked to get him stabilized until they arrived at St. Bart’s.

The rest was a blur. The ambulance stopped at some point but his movement didn't stop. White, blue, tan- the colors blended together like a freshly painted canvas dropped in water. Some point later he was put onto a very small bed and a machine whirred around him, making his head and neck and chest feel heavy, the giant circular device whining as it worked around him. Then all of a sudden he was out of that bed and into a different one, one with a thin pillow and an IV rod protruding from one corner of the metal framework.

It was at that moment that Sherlock realized the doctor wasn't there anymore. His body seemed to convulse as he tried to sit up. Hands, too many hands, pushed to get him to lay flat down instead. “J-John…!” he cried out, pain in his voice but not in his body- no, his body was numb, the whole side of it, and he couldn't remember if it was supposed to be like that, if he even _had_ a right side to begin with. “John! Jo, J-Joh’, plea’, need Joh...n!”

And then he was right there, hovering over his face, cool skin pressing to his forehead, catching tendrils of sweaty hair and curling them back. “I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here.”

“Wha’s ‘appenin’?!”

“You're going into surgery. You've got-” Where those tears in John’s eyes? He couldn't tell. “You've got a blood clot and a _massive bloody cyst_ in your head! It’s not a stroke, but... The doctors, they're- they're going to take care of you, alright?”

“B’t _you’re_ my doct’r…?”

That had to be a tear, sliding down John’s face. Or was it? No, no, his cheek wasn't wet… Trick of the light? Oh, he couldn't deduce like this. Not like this.

“I know. I know. But it’s their turn this time. I can't help you. I've got the best people to do it for you, alright? Watson-approved surgeons only.” Oh, good. If they were approved by John, then nothing could go wrong. Movement caught his attention and he looked up as something descended towards his mouth; Sherlock’s lungs began to work fervently, inhaling and exhaling in a panic. “Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down! It's just an oxygen mask, okay? It'll help, I promise  You'll be okay. You'll be just fine.” As expected, John’s reassurance calmed him, would always calm him, and the mask was slipped on.

The mask was not an oxygen mask, however. The army doctor had been lying. Almost immediately, Sherlock began to feel woozy, mostly oblivious to being wheeled out of the room he was in and down the hall, people clearing the way for them. He couldn't feel John there anymore but he couldn't feel most things now. John had promised though- that everything would be fine. And it would be. It had to be.

He lost consciousness just before the operating room doors opened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments!! It really means a lot to me to see that this has been received so well!! This chapter is in John's POV, and yes, it runs back on what's already happened, but for a reason. I feel like it was important to do so; the rest of the chapters won't double back like this, promise. Apologies for any mistakes; I don't currently have a beta reader.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Despite all of John’s attempts to ignore the glaringly obvious signs that something was incredibly wrong with Sherlock, his wife’s words had gotten to him. It was no surprise to her, then, when he called Lestrade up first thing in the morning the next day, hardly after the man’s shift had begun, to inquire about any possible cases. Unfortunately there had been nothing at the moment. That was, until later that day, when the DI had taken the call as an invitation to phone him when one  _ had _ showed up.

He had, of course, said yes, and even expressed gratitude over Lestrade thinking about the call from earlier. The pictures had flooded in then, compiled into one large, rather gruesome transaction. Mary had even taken a look at them and seemed unhappy with the absurd amount of blood painting the floor. Once their combined curiosity- and theories -had been satiated, he had sent a text, glancing up only to see her slip into the bedroom.

_ Greg’s got a case. A funny one, I think. You up for it? -JW _

His fingers tapped nervously on the arm of his plush couch, unconsciously tapping out the rhythm of some tune Sherlock often played on his violin. The doctor hadn't actually heard it since before… the fall… but it had never left his mind. Memory, John had found out, was a fickle thing. It took what it wanted and stored it away in a neat little package, just waiting to be taken out and peered into. What it didn't want, however, it ran through a shredder, with no regards to what its master wanted or didn't want.

John’s memory had wanted those violin melodies. It had not wanted the sound of Sherlock’s faint laugh when he was deep in thought or believed that nobody was around to hear. The only explanation for it he could think of was that perhaps he hadn't ever paid enough attention to it while the instrument had invaded his every thought if they happened not to have a case. Of course there had been plenty of guilt over that during those years, but now that it was back, he knew for a certainty that he would never let it go again.

His mobile buzzed in his hand and dragged him from his mind. A faint smile crossed his lips as he read the words, feeling slightly triumphant for reasons he could not fathom. 

_ Doubt that. But yes. I'm coming with a cab. -SH _

_ I'll be ready. -JW _

And oh how quickly he was. As soon as he typed out the reply, John had all but leapt from the couch to pull on his shoes and his jacket, slipping into the bedroom where Mary was, the woman insistent on folding her own laundry even though her husband had offered no less than six times to do it for her. He was a doctor and had obviously seen women entering the hospital to give birth, but… Some part of his brain, the soon-to-be-father part of his brain, kept pressing the idea that Mary was about to pop at any time because of just how much her belly protruded nowadays. It was a silly thought, and more anxiety inducing than the situation already was.

“Mary,” he called, tapping on the doorframe. “Sherlock’s on his way over; I'll be going out. Looks like this one’s got his attention even without pictures.”

She paused in her ministrations and shuffled her way over. “Well, that's certainly new. Maybe he was a bit more bored than we thought?”

“Maybe,” he agreed. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced at his phone; no new text, so he slipped it into his pocket. “What do you think is up with him? I mean… You're worried, you've got me worried, you might as well tell me.”

The woman’s hands faltered with the fabric. A soft sigh rushed past her lips and she turned, hanging the shirt she had been working on lay over the edge of the basket. “I don't know,” Mary replied honestly. “Not… not for sure, anyway. But I do know that whatever it is, he's avoiding it, and I don't really think he's inflicted it upon himself this time.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He's ignoring it, not trying to hide it. There's a difference, John. If he was hiding it- if it was something he was doing, do you really think he would have let you just walk into his flat without getting upset the past few times?” Mary had a point there. The doctor had learned long ago that if it was smoking, drug use, or something somehow similar, he wouldn't have been let within a mile radius around Baker Street, not without Sherlock finding some way to put him off just long enough to hide everything he could. He was clever, oh so clever; and even cleverer when he tried to deceive John.

Before he could give an answer, however, their doorbell rang. “That’s him,” he hummed faintly. Giving his wife a small smile, he retreated to the door, where he did, indeed, find Sherlock standing outside.

“Hello, John,” the detective greeted. The man tried not to frown but after spending as much time as he had with Sherlock, he already had the beginnings of suspicion from the ugly little habit he had of using his (in comparison) limited knowledge to assess his friend, deduce him, though for John it worked more through emotions than through facts. Like how he noticed the discrepancies in how he greeted him, the way his eyes seemed cloudy and unfocused, the faint tick at the corner of his lips that suggested he wanted to smile but wasn't sure about it. “Hello, Mary.”

“Hi to you too, Sherlock.” John jumped a bit, twisting his head to see that she had followed him right up to the door. "You two run along and have fun then. I do think I'm going to get myself a snack…"

Oh, dear. A  _ snack. _ Mary’s snacks were not snacks- they were nearly a meal. The only things that distinguished her snacks from her meals were that she didn't eat them with him every time, they were slightly smaller, and that the combination of items she tossed together was in  _ no way _ worthy of being a meal. And that was talking about the healthy snacks.

Befor he had even had the chance to groan she had already continued on. “Yes, a big snack, John, so if the skip is still open after you're all finished, I would very much appreciate you stopping by. It's not my fault your baby is a carb junkie." He absently wondered if he had ever told Mary he himself had been born at four point five kilograms? Probably not. ...He’d have to inform her of that soon.

Pressing his hands together, he took a step forward. “Right, well, we better get going. Greg wants to wrap this one up quick; has the potential of spreading fear among the city, y'know, one of those sort of cases." The words fulfilled his intended purpose of spurring Sherlock into action. The man turned, his arms moving out to the sides faintly, as if to steady him against a small bout of dizziness.

“I've got us a taxi.” Ah, yes. Of course Sherlock would. Though he couldn't say he disapproved… The case was much too far away for him to think about walking all the way there and all the way back, especially seeing as the latter would include it being deep night and spending a lot of energy after being active the whole day. Despite the psychosomatic limp he had sported before he met Sherlock and during that hateful time after the fall, he actually  _ did _ have an old injury that could be prone to pain whenever he went traipsing off after a man younger than him for too long of a time.

Didn't stop him from doing it, though. It was just a bit of a hindrance. 

Once Sherlock turned, John followed right after him, only pausing to wave to Mary as she shut the door behind them. The street was mostly empty, the time of day providing a bit of lull in the traffic- or at least as much of a lull as the hub of London could get. Because of that, instead of getting in from the right and sliding over as was per usual so that he didn't almost be hit by a car, he had no qualms in walking around to the other door, allowing Sherlock to take his usual seat. He had yet to figure out what was so special about that right side and why he always insisted on sitting over there. It wasn't just his imagination either, considering the few times they had ended up in switched positions the man had been nervous, fidgety. It was just easier to allow him the one he wanted.

Once the both of them were in and the cabbie pulled out onto the road, John pulled out his phone. The detective was already leaning in, eyes bright (and for a moment, John thought, they looked more  _ feverish _ than  _ entertained _ , but that couldn't be right, because  _ surely _ Sherlock was fine). Opening up the pictures once more, he angled his hand so that the man could see the images. “Double murder. No murder weapon, no DNA currently found, and no sign of the victims' cars." It was baffling to John, so he was certain that Sherlock would at least be intrigued.

“Mm… Glad Lestrade finally has something worth investigating,” came the detective’s voice. John couldn't help the way his lips twitched up at hearing that. He had been hoping that the case caught his attention. Otherwise, John didn't know what he would have done.

The rest of the ride was quiet but the doctor’s mind was buzzing with thoughts going so fast he was slightly curious if it was what Sherlock put up with on a daily basis. If it was, he really did feel sorry for the man; it felt like the couldn't grasp onto the threads of the last thought once they had moved on, neurons firing and connecting and trying to make deductions to figure out just what was going on.

It was a long enough ride that John did just that. He kept throwing furtive glances at his old flat mate, taking in as much of his appearance as he could. The first thing he scratched onto a mental list titled  _ ‘Sherlock Symptoms’ _ (a list he had made before and would make again, considering the man wasn't all that keen on telling him if he was sick) was that he didn't actually  _ notice _ he was being observed.

That itself was enough to send a spike of worry through him.

There didn't seem to be signs of a cold or flu, or any sort of normal bug at all. No fever, no chills, no stuffy or runny nose, no cough, no nausea… The only thing he thought might be there would be a headache, if the fingers occasionally rising to rub at his temple was anything to go off of. His pupils were dilated too, he'd seen that back at the flat, but… That on its own didn't exactly scream ‘sick man walking’ to even his eyes.

Thankfully, his scrutiny went unnoticed- or unheeded -the entire ride. Before long they arrived at the car park. John paid the cabbie and they both got out, hurrying into the building, up the lift, and out onto the scene. His eyes strayed surreptitiously to Sherlock over and over again. Thankfully, Lestrade was right there when the doors opened.

It was obvious that there was relief in his voice as he spoke, hands on his hips. “You made it. Good. This one is bloody strange, I'll be honest there. It's just right over here."

The closer they came to the scene, the more John wished that he could turn right back around. Even before they had any warning he could see the blood, sticky red reaching its fingers across the cold cement, pools making the scene more awful than even some of the ones he'd seen on the battlefield. At least those had been bullet wounds and the soldiers had died before too much had been lost; these were citizens that appeared to have been strung up and bled dry, if the mess was any indication to go off of.

"Watch where you step. There's… stuff… everywhere,” Greg said, running a hand through his hair. Even with his experience, he couldn't help but be disturbed at the scene.

The detective glanced back at them. "John said there's no leads. At least, not as far as standard procedure."

The DI nodded a bit. “Yeah, yeah, that's right.” He would have cut it off there but this was  _ Sherlock _ and it was clear even to John that he didn't want to deal with the man’s insufferable quips at the moment, and so he added quickly, “And before you go off about it all being simple and we're all buffoons, just know that I've tried absolutely everything I know of to get somewhere with this. Within reason, of course."

“You mean you did what you could without risking getting fired.”

“...Possibly.”

He gave one last look to the pair of them, but more specifically to the doctor, eyes roving over him for a split second. “So you called John, and here we are.”

That wasn't exactly true. He had been the one to call, spurred on his wife, with nothing more than a hope. While he prayed that Greg wouldn't correct him, it seemed that whoever was supposed to take calls upstairs wasn't too keen on listening to him this time. “No, ah, John called me.”

Damn.

Instead of the questions he was sure would be coming, Sherlock did little else than take the information in and turn away. That was yet  _ another _ bad sign, he was sure of it. For once, couldn't Sherlock be his old bloody self again and stop worrying him? Because as of late, that didn't seem like that was going to happen.

“So, ah… what's up with him?” John looked up to see Greg had stayed beside him, his voice low. Sherlock didn't seem to hear. Of course, it was rare for him to hear when investigating like this anyway; if the doctor really concentrated, he could convince himself that everything was fine. “He's not… He’s still clean, isn't he?”

Clean… a shudder ran through him. After pulling Sherlock from that blasted plane, high as a kite, mumbling about England in the nineteenth century, John would be lying if he didn't have moments where he stopped and paid attention, just to make sure he hadn't subjected himself to another drug cocktail. It had been absolutely sickening. And yet…

“Yeah, he is. Clean as a whistle. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t even found any and you know that she’s always the first.”

A soft sigh escaped the DI’s mouth, though it was more in relief than anything else. “Good. Good… I don’t think I could bear to see him like he was again…” John knew that Greg had been there before him; that he had seen Sherlock at his absolute worst, when overdosing was a constant threat above Sherlock’s head, ever hoving, death ever present. He himself couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be witness to those horrors. He was just glad that Greg had been there.

They were silent for only a moment when the army doctor fidgeted and turned to look at him. “Something  _ is _ wrong with him, though,” he admitted quietly. “Neither Mary or I can figure it out, but hell… He’s been off. Somehow, I’m not sure how, but it’s like… It’s like he’s not, um, all there.”

“Not all there, what do you mean?”

It was difficult to describe what it was exactly that he had been witness to as of late.  _ Off _ and  _ not all there _ was about the easiest way to describe it, but it was painfully obvious that that wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Not with helping Sherlock, not with explaining it all to Lestrade. “Like… Like his brain isn’t functioning right. Like he’s almost… Normal.”

“If I didn’t already know what that would do to the bloke, I would have said that was a good thing.” Greg’s face had taken on a light shade of gray. Yes, if Sherlock had been  _ normal _ , then he wouldn’t have ever returned to John and the rest, would he? If he truly was normal, then the fall wouldn’t have been an elaborate, clever, necessary party trick. If he were normal, he would be dead.

The thought was making Greg ill. John distantly wondered if his own features fit the same description. It sure felt like it.

Sudden movement caught his eye. Looking over, John was thoroughly surprised to see his former flatmate pressing a hand against his ear, face scrunched up as though he was in pain. That didn’t look right. Pain never looked right on Sherlock’s face. It didn’t belong there. He shared a look with Greg, then took a few steps forward, though still out of range of most of the blood. “Sherlock?” he asked cautiously, his voice tinged with uncertainty. The detective didn’t indicate that he had heard besides a small, infinitesimal tilt of his head. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

“What? Oh, uh, yes- yes, my headache is gone.”

“Your what?” He frowned. Yes, he had suspected that Sherlock had a headache, but he had most definitely not said anything about it to him. Strange… Not a single moment of deduction on the taxi ride, and now he was speaking as though he had told John things.

“Headache. ‘S gone.”

John watched with growing alarm as the man pressed a hand to his face, only to slide it up- almost as though he had missed the initial spot he was looking for. That was ridiculous, though, wasn’t it? To not be able to touch your own temple. He took another step forward. “Is he okay?” Greg asked behind him and he didn’t even bother to turn back.

Sherlock was struggling with something, that much was certain. He faltered; what the hell was he doing? The question only became more pressing when out of the blue the detective began to actually  _ giggle. _ That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. Without any more inhibitions, he began to step over the pools of blood, completely ignoring the bodies otherwise, to get to Sherlock. He quickened his pace, nearly leaping over it all to get over there once the man had slurred out, “John. John, c’mere. Look, look. I can't- I c’n’t get it out…!”

“Sherlock? Sherlock, what in hell’s name is wrong with you? What can't you get out?” He was acutely aware that he was all but pressing his side against the other man’s, trying to get him to focus just long enough to explain. That’s all he wanted- an explanation. An idea of what was happening instead of being stuck with the feeling of his gut collapsing into itself out of worry. It was the same feeling. The same emotion that clung to him like a blanket, making him feel heavy and useless, limbs wanting to fold in under him like the bones had been replaced with jelly. The same sensation that he had felt two times before.

The detective turned to face him and show the little pocketbook of tools he took with him everywhere. John rubbed at his face, but kept his eyes free, watching him fumble with the damned thing, unable to get his fingers to coordinate. Sherlock laughed again. “Can't- I can't it, it's so- sh's dead, Joh’, dead! Little gol’fis’ gotta… Gol’fish is… Dead!”

“Right, that’s enough,” the army doctor mumbled to himself, too low for Sherlock to hear, and slipped his arm underneath the other’s. Without any warning at all, he hauled the taller man to his feet, keeping from stumbling only because of how often he had had to handle people bigger and taller than him. There was a technique to it, though it was helpful that Sherlock was still conscious enough to help him out on it.

A pointed look to Lestrade had him hurrying over, taking John’s spot, supporting him. He instead backed away to be able to look into his face. His instincts as a doctor kicked in. Scenarios, problems, symptoms,  _ everything _ he could think of flashed through his head. Anything at all related to their previous adventures, any bleeding possibility, every illness,  _ everything _ , because that was what Sherlock deserved.  _ His all. _

“Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Can you smile for me?” he eventually managed to ground out, keeping his voice soft. The tension in his body was too much, though, and he was surprised that even in his current state, Sherlock didn’t seem to recognize it. He did smile, though, eyes glazed and nearly vacant as thin lips pulled up in the most lopsided grin he had ever seen. “Yeah, yeah, there you go. Just like that. A great big smile, yeah?” John watched carefully, taking in every detail of his face.

It was a good thing he did, too. The smile wasn’t lopsided. In fact, it appeared that Sherlock had attempted to give a smile reminiscent of a Cheshire cat, but had, in fact, failed spectacularly. The entirety of the right side of Sherlock’s face was completely slack. Muscles lax, eyelid drooping down, John felt as though he had been hit in the chest with a stack of bricks with the realization.

“Oooh, shit,” he swore. The world had dropped out from under his feet  _ again. _ For the  _ third time. _ Why was it that the universe hated him? Why was it that the universe hated  _ Sherlock? _ “No. No, hell no, fuck!” His eyes turned sharply to where Greg was, at the side of the man. “Lestrade! Lestrade, get an ambulance! He's- holy shit, I think he's having a  _ stroke!” _

Incredulity and fear sprouted on the DI’s face. “A stroke?!” he nearly shouted.

John didn’t have time for this. No, Sherlock didn’t have time for this. “Yes, a stroke! Look at his face! His right side- everything is drooping. No smile over there. He's unbalanced, he- he's slurring his words- get an ambulance!” He waved a hand anxiously at the detective.

Lestrade carefully let go of his charge and then tried to pull his phone out so fast that he fumbled, nearly dropping the damn thing. The sound of his voice faded into background noise for John as he stepped over to replace where the DI had been, breathing fast as he let his best friend lean on him.

What if he was overreacting though? Maybe it was just a bad day, maybe… Maybe he had simply taken a dose of something before they had headed off, perhaps marijuana, perhaps some sort of relaxant,  _ something! _ Something that meant this could be  _ fixed. _ That wasn’t the case though, and John knew it. Still, swallowing back his imminent panic, he went through the rest of the check, hoping,  _ praying _ that he had been wrong. “Sherlock, I need you to do a couple more things for me, okay? Just a couple more thi- no, no, look at me.”

Those brilliant blue orbs had started drifting away, making John’s heart clench in overwhelming worry. His voice seemed to bring him back; the man’s gaze returned to him, no matter how unsteady.

“There we go. I want you to put your hands out straight in front of you, palms up. Okay? Like this.” He would have to do it. He’d have to step away from Sherlock, give him a chance to see what he was doing, let him follow and do the same. And so he did. He couldn’t afford anything else. And so the doctor did, staying less than two feet away, ready to catch him at the slightest falter. “Close your eyes and do it just like this, okay?”

And there it was. The proof. One arm lower than the other; getting lower, falling. Stroke. It had to be a stroke. But why? Sherlock was healthy; he wasn’t in any medical danger as far as he knew, no conditions that had gone untreated. It didn’t make sense. It just didn’t make  _ sense! _

“Shit!” John exclaimed, shoving his face into his eyes for a few moments. His voice had broken on the word.

“Wh’s wrong? ‘S funny, Joh’, so funny…!” Sherlock asked, making the doctor look up from his palms. The look on the other man’s face was so awful. So unsure, looking for a cue as to how to act in John’s own face, searching for guidance of some kind, and yet tinged with humor. As if this was all some sort of joke. He watched as a hand raised, only to have it pressed on top of his head. The fingers were still in his hair as Sherlock patted him. The action was supposed to be comforting he knew but it was anything but.

He didn’t have any more time to think about the odd notion, the  _ sentiment _ , before Sherlock was suddenly keeling over to one side, knee giving out without any sort of warning. Another curse almost left him as he stepped in again, grabbing his old flatmate, refusing to let him fall. Sherlock didn’t deserve that.

“No, Sherlock, this is  _ not _ funny! You're having a damn  _ stroke! _ ” Breath. He had to breathe. Even if they were shaky, even if his lungs burned as though it was doing absolutely no good, he had to breath. “Look at me, now. Answer me this. What was the color of the lady in our first case together? What color was she wearing?” The ambulance was already on its way; John already knew that it was too serious for him to do anything. Still, he figured he might as well finish out the procedural check for stroke, to make the both of them focus. John was highly convinced that if he didn’t keep himself going in some sort of direction that he was going to go absolutely insane. So questions it was.

“Many, many cases, Joh’, s’ many c’ses, ‘s fun…! Wh’re’s our cab f’r th’ case?”

If he wasn’t going to go insane, he was certainly going to be sick. “You didn't answer the question,” he reprimanded gently. “What was the color? The lady with the suitcase, the one that spelled out ‘Rachel’, the serial suicides. Don't you remember?” The only thing he got in return was a laugh, lilting and ugly and grating in a way that he sincerely hoped he would never hear something like it ever again.

No answer was given before the faint sound of an ambulance grew louder and louder, careening up onto the right floor. It echoed around the cement building. An absent thought wriggled its way into the back of his mind, telling him that the longer it took Sherlock to get loaded, the worse of a headache he was going to get. Not that that mattered. It was Sherlock and only Sherlock that mattered in that moment. 

He glanced away to watch paramedics beginning to rush out of the ambulance, gurney ready, Lestrade pointing over at the two of them. “Right, come on then, Sherlock. Let me see your coat, you’re-” To his surprise, his command was interrupted by a whine, high pitched, sounding more like a mere frightened child than anything he could have ever imagined to pass by the detective’s lips. A knife gilded with guilt sliced through his chest. “It's alright, I'll give it back. Promise.” The faintest bit of a nod gave him permission; John slipped the coat off of his shoulders and then, with careful movements, removed the man’s scarf as well.

Paramedics took Sherlock’s arms and guided him to lay down on the gurney. Immediately, John saw the transition from humor to  _ terror _ . The only thing that could have convinced him more was what happened next. “Joh’... Jo-ohn!” Fear like nothing else was laced into his voice. As if the first knife wasn’t enough, the sound of his name said like that gave him the impression that someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water on his head and all down his body.

“Don’t worry, I’m coming with you,” he halfway gasped, straining with all his might to stay calm. “Just- just breathe, okay? It'll be alright, Sherlock. Breathe for me. Breathe.” Jogging to keep up with the gurney, he looked to one of the paramedics. “I’m his flatmate,” he said, not even pausing to think, refusing to allow them to leave him there. Not after Sherlock had said his name as he had. Not after that. “Please, I have to come, I’m- I’m the closest thing he’s got to family.” Luckily, when one of the medics looked towards Lestrade, the DI nodded to affirm the statement. Thank the heavens above that the man cared about Sherlock as much as he did.

Uncertainty cleared, a spot was made for John to sit beside the other in the ambulance, near his head, where he wouldn't get in the way. Contact was broken as the personnel took his hand in order to set up an IV, other instruments quickly being hooked up and tests beginning to be administered. Once it was done, the army doctor quickly replaced his touch, not sure what to think when the tension bled away from Sherlock the moment he found his fingers. He didn’t want to take his eyes off his best friend, not for one second, but he had to. Using only one hand, he pulled out his phone, glad that he had kept Greg’s text box open.

_ Bring Mary, tell Mycroft. -JW _

It would have been better to type out something larger, something that informed the DI of what was going on, but he didn’t want to have his attention off of Sherlock for a second more than it had to be. It buzzed just as he slipped it back into his pocket but he paid it absolutely no heed.

The minutes it took to arrive at the hospital were horrific, agonizing even, not just for Sherlock who was just beginning to show the evidence of pain through his body, but for John as well, who was wondering if they had somehow driven out of the gaze of reality and were somehow stuck in a limbo- him beside a gurney and Sherlock possibly dying yet again.

He could almost hear Sherlock’s voice calling him irrational and illogical.

It would have been welcome.

He lost sight of Sherlock for a little bit once they actually got to the hospital. Taken off to do tests, to have scans done, blood drawn, whatever it was that they wanted to check him for. John was left in a waiting room, anxious, fidgeting with the overwhelming desire to start crying. This was too much. Just too much. How many times was he going to be faced with this? How many times was he going to have to be in the hospital with Sherlock on the bed, with wires and tubes and all manners of instruments sticking out of him?

Once upon a time, John might have thought it was a coincidence. That no such thing could keep happening to one man, that the injuries would have been in place because of bad luck, or maybe bad choices. But he had known Sherlock for too long. He had seen, first hand, that that was not true. That coincidence was not a force to believe in.

After all, as Sherlock always told him,  _ the universe was rarely so lazy. _

Whatever the reason the universe had for putting him and his best friend through so much, he wished it would just  _ stop it! _

His head jerked up when the sight of a bed wheeled past came into his view, a mop of curly black hair situated on a pillow, pale skin seeming to disappear against the white of the sheet. Immediately, John jumped up and ran after it, desperate to catch up. He was put back into a patient room where they allowed him in and quickly explained the situation, a black and white CAT scan printed off onto a piece of paper. A doctor showed it to John.

His stomach fell straight through the floor when he spotted the large mass of black. It looked huge, taking up a sizeable portion of where Sherlock’s brain should have been, the center groove off kilter, too much to the right as the organ had tried to compensate for the lack of room. “This is a cyst,” the doctor said- the neurosurgeon, it had to be. It wouldn’t be anything else, not with this. “A primary arachnoid cyst to be precise- primary meaning he’s had it since he was in the womb, and arachnoid because it formed between the brain and the arachnoid membrane surrounding it. Either the cyst or recent trauma has caused the formation of a blood clot which is, as of currently, causing bleeding on the brain.”

He swallowed, but there was nothing there, mouth dry with fear. “O… Okay, so… What- what are you going to do? Can you get rid of it?”

“The blood clot, yes. The cyst… No.” The surgeon shifted and glanced over to where Sherlock was getting fitted for operation. “If we do that now, there’s a high chance of damaging different areas of the brain- speech, movement, memory. There’s a high chance those areas are already affected considering the clot, but to attempt to remove the cyst would result in massive damage. I don’t think it’s a chance anybody is willing to take. We will, however, conduct a  craniotomy fenestration in order to reduce any possible pressure that it’s causing. A craniotomy fenestration is-”

“Is taking out a piece of the skull and making holes in the cyst to let it drain slowly, right?” John interrupted. The man blinked, then nodded. “Sorry, I’m- I’m an army doctor. I, uh, I know some things.”

With a bit of a cough, the doctor nodded. “Right, right. Well, that’s exactly what it is. But I will warn you. There are a lot of complications that can come out of this. The brain is a sensitive organ. Until he pulls through and wakes up, we have no way of gauging just how much damage has been done. Please be prepared. And thank you for getting him in here so early. He has a better chance than most.”

All of a sudden, Sherlock’s weak voice filtered from the bed, a bit of coherence finally worming around in his mind. “J-John!” he called out. The doctor nearly cringed from the sound. “John! Jo, J-Joh’, plea’, need Joh...n!”

The few feet to the bed were crossed in less than a second. Slipping his hand into the other man’s, John allowed himself to be in his view. A portion of hair on his left side, about two inches wide, had been shaved away. From just in front of his ear it curved up in a wide arch, ending at the edge of his scalp above the middle of his eye. It was ghastly. He had to force himself to look away from it. “I’m here, Sherlock, I’m here,” he said quietly, bent over so far he had the serious urge to press their foreheads together. The angle was bad for it, though, and he didn’t want to accidentally mess something up. What he could have done just from that simple action, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t worth risking it.

A movement in Sherlock’s throat indicated him swallowing. The weak grip on his hand tightened infinitesimally. “Wha’s ‘appenin’?!”

His eyes stung. The fall had left him numb, the gunshot ended with mostly anger in regards to that whole situation, but here, right now, all he could feel was  _ pain. _ Shock and betrayal were surprisingly good distractions. “You've got a blood clot and a  _ massive bloody cyst _ in your head!” he explained, voice cracking pitifully. “It’s not a stroke, but... The doctors, they're- they're going to take care of you, alright?”

“B’t  _ you’re _ my doct’r…?”

All strength seemed to leave John’s body. That,  _ that _ was a sentence he was  _ never _ going to forget. To hell with a mind palace, who gave two shits about photographic memory, John would never, ever remember anything more heart wrenching and soul crushing than that. Bittersweet it was, nice to hear, but something he would have traded in an instant if he could have.

“I know. I know.” There was that crack. The awful tearing of words through lungs that burned as hot coals scorched him from the inside out, from a throat so closed off he could barely breath. It was so close to the same tone of voice he had used after the fall, when he had tried to get to Sherlock, to  _ touch him _ , and he had to close his eyes and shake his head to dispel the image of beautiful, brilliant eyes glassy and unseeing from his mind. “But it’s their turn this time. I can't help you. I've got the best people to do it for you, alright? Watson-approved surgeons only.”

Peace came over Sherlock’s face then. It surprised him but then again, it shouldn’t have. This was the man that had faked his own death and had suffered at the hand of his wife, all for  _ him _ . Sherlock had once said he didn’t deserve to have him as a friend- in that moment, he felt nauseous with his own assertion that it had to be the other way around. Sure, this was not from saving John’s life or his love, it hadn’t come out of gratitude or pleasure or some imagined debt being repaid, but the army doctor simply couldn’t believe it was anything but the universe saying,  _ look. Look at what he’s given for you. Look at what he’s done for you, what he’s  _ become _ for you. Don’t forget it, or this will happen again. _

Illogical to the max, but as real to John as the panting of air that rushed past Sherlock’s lips.

He looked up as a nurse came over. The neurosurgeon had given the go-ahead to bring him into surgery; he watched as a mask was hooked up to a tank that was decidedly not just oxygen. As soon as the device was starting to be slipped over Sherlock’s face, the detective gave a great start; the briefest sensation of pain throbbed from his hand where nails were digging into his skin. Panic overtook the man in a way John hadn’t seen before, unadulterated, unmeasured, uncalculated. John quickly leaned forward more, better in the man’s sight, fingers of his free hand carding through the curly locks that had remained untouched, if slicked back out of the way a little.  “Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down! It's just an oxygen mask, okay? It'll help, I promise  You'll be okay. You'll be just fine.”

He watched with worry as slowly the words sunk in. Sherlock’s terror bled away from him. The jolting gasps turned into steadier breathing in a few moments, eyes locked with John’s. He could almost imagine what the man might say but refused to let it enter his mind. After all, he didn’t know if the Sherlock in his head would sound like the right one, the healthy one, or this scared, upset, injured puppy of a man, seeking nothing but validation from the one person that he could trust most in the world. It wasn’t worth it to subject himself to that much torture. The detective was doing that on his own well enough, and it wasn’t even being done on purpose.

Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed. Hand falling limp, John carefully extracted his from it, and stood off to the side as everything was set into motion. The bed rushed out of the door and down the hall. He watched from the frame of the room until it rounded a corner, then continued to stand stock still until a nurse came to him and gently guided him into a waiting room where Mary and Greg were there, waiting. And, surprisingly enough, so was Mycroft, an entirely bored expression somehow adding to the impersonal, sterilized feeling in the room.

“John?” Mary said, shuffling over to him as fast as she could, brows drawn down. “John, what’s happened? All Greg said was that Sherlock had a stroke.”

If he could see himself now, John would have seen how much of a wreck the past thirty minutes had rendered him. Tired, shaking slightly, and looking like he was going to be sick for all intents and purposes, he could barely manage to lift his hands up and place them on his wife’s arms to steady her. “No,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. He caught a glance of Greg only a few feet away now, straining to hear what he was saying. So he spoke again, louder this time, so that the three there could hear. “No, it… It wasn’t a stroke. ...It’s a cyst.”

“What, so like… A tumor?” Greg sounded strained even saying it, but at least John could take comfort in the fact that he could shake his head without lying.

“Ah, no, no, a cyst is…” He struggled for a moment, the medical terms for it flying through his head. Best not to confuse anyone with that. “It’s ah, a mass of cells.  _ Like _ a tumor, but  _ not _ a tumor. It doesn’t grow, it doesn’t change, it’s not cancerous. At least, not this one, as far as I’m aware. It’s in his head, formed before he was born, and… It might have created a blood clot.” Horrified looks met his words and he ploughed on before anyone could interrupt. “It’s not putting pressure on his brain or anything, and it’s still not clear if it  _ was _ the cause of the blood clot, but there is one there. That’s about all I know.”

From one of the uncomfortable, sickeningly mint green chairs, Mycroft rose. “Will he be alright?” he asked, deceptively calm. If John didn’t know that the twitch in his hand, or the gleam in his eye, or the way he leaned on his cane more than usual betrayed his worry for his little brother, he would have had half a mind to punch the man.

Letting a hand lift from Mary’s hand to rub against his eyes, he nodded faintly. “Yeah. Um, mostly, anyway. The doctor said there would be complications, issues… He had blood on his brain, Mycroft. We’re not going to know just how  _ alright _ he is until he wakes up. ...If he wakes up.”

“John.” He looked back to see his wife’s eyes hardened, though not uncompassionate. “Don’t talk like that. He’s Sherlock. He’ll pull through. We’ll just have to deal with the aftermath of it, and it’s not like we haven’t done that before, now is it? It’ll just be a little different this time. That’s all. Now sit down. You look like you’re going to faint.”

With the guidance of the woman’s hand on his elbow, he was directed to sit down on one of the ugly chairs. The material protested loudly under his weight, squeaking disconcertingly. A few moments of just breathing passed before he looked over. “How did you get here?” John asked, fingers curling and uncurling on his lap, tired gaze fixed on the older Holmes brother.

“I have eyes everywhere, John. It didn’t take long to realize that the ambulance heading to a  _ murder _ scene was too important to overlook. I’m just disappointed that it was my brother again, and not perhaps some bloke that the two of you had beaten up.”

A wave of anger welled up inside his chest, threatening to wash over him and everyone in the room. Closing his eyes briefly, he turned to Mary. “If I go to punch him, stop me,” he said lowly. The faintest of smiles, nearly pained, curled up her lips. 

“Certainly not.”

Mycroft at least had the decency to appear offended, irritated that the army doctor would be willing to do that. As intelligent as the older Holmes was, he wasn't very smart in the ways of human nature, a trait he shared with his brother. “Sentiment, Mycroft,” John bit out between his teeth. “Sherlock is my  _ friend _ and you're talking as though he's not just gone in for brain surgery.”

“Sentiment isn’t going to help my brother now,” he responded, looking to the side in near exasperation. “And neither will worrying. All we can do is wait until he wakes up, see what the damage is, and proceed from there.” The man stood, using his case to support some of his weight. Just because Mycroft really was concerned didn’t mean John’s urge to punch him had faded any. His eyes never left the older Holmes as he made his way out of the waiting room, didn’t stop looking at the door until it had swung closed and there was no trace of him left. 

All the nervous tension in John’s shoulders drained and he slumped forward.

As much as Mycroft’s words stung and as much as he wanted them not to be true, they were. Healing and reassurance would come after Sherlock woke up. Until then, there was nothing anyone could do.

{...}

All through the night, John waited. Greg and Mary stayed until he noticed her getting groggy, trying to stay awake. At that point, he had asked the DI to take her home and for once, his wife didn’t argue with his choice of words. She didn’t insist she was capable of staying, and she certainly didn’t protest going home. All it took was one exhausted, nerve wracked look for Mary to drop any ideas about John going home with her.

Left alone in that awful waiting room, John had nothing to do but to think. Sure, he dozed a couple of times, head tilted down and to the side, unable to keep his eyes open, but not for long. Never for long. He needed to be awake when Sherlock came out of surgery.

Somehow, he was.

At nearly four o’clock in the morning, the neurosurgeon from before came into the room, cleaned of all traces of having just had his hands inside England’s most brilliant mind, save for how tired he appeared to be. Once John recognized him he struggled to stand up, legs protesting, pins and needles shooting through them. “How is he?” he asked, not bothering with greetings or politeness in the least bit.

“Good,” the man replied. “Very good, actually. The cyst was putting no dangerous pressure on the brain, the blood clot was cleared up, and he stayed stable the whole way through. He’s in the ICU right now.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not yet. Give us an hour or two to be sure everything is functioning as it should be, and then we’ll move him to a regular room.”

John blew out a low breath and nodded. A few more of the details were hammered out, a few symptoms that were to be expected once he was allowed to see him, once Sherlock woke up. The army doctor took it all in stride. Seeing Sherlock on a hospital bed would be better than remembering him half coherent and rambling in panic like the night before.

In that hour, John did little else than to text the news to both Mary and Greg (his mobile still somehow had some charge to it, thankfully), get himself a cup of the truthfully awful coffee from the canteen, and try to keep his legs from going to sleep again.

No worry had left him. It was an ever present feeling, weighing him down, holding his heart in a tight grasp. He was only glad that Sherlock appeared to be out of the woods- especially when a nurse came in to retrieve him and take him to the detective’s room.

His footsteps were quick, quick enough that the poor nurse had to almost jog alongside him to keep leading him in the right direction. “He’s asleep right now,” she said kindly, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as they came up to the door. “When he comes to, he’ll probably be pretty out of it. He did wake up a little earlier, though.” They stopped at the doorframe; she turned to him, smile gentle and unsure. “I’m going to guess that you’re John? He kept asking for someone named that until we said he’d see them soon.”

Surprise flitted over his features. Tearing his gaze from the figure on the bed, he gave a small nod. “Ah… Yeah. I am.”

“Good. He’ll be happy to see you then.” She gestured him to go in then, with one last quiet glance, she stepped away and back into the hall, disappearing down the halls.

Sherlock looked so small on the bed. Oxygen tubes were directed inside his nose, the soft whir of different machines in the air. In contrast to when he had been shot, there was only one hand that was pierced by an IV cannula, tape keeping it securely down. Face pale but not blending into the sheet as it had done on the way into surgery, John watched as there was the occasional flicker of movement behind his eyelids. Curly black locks had been slicked back and John could see, with growing nausea, where the incision had been made. Stitched ran up the whole of the arc that had been shaved and the piece of skull that had been removed was at a slightly different angle, making the natural dip of bone above his cheekbone a little bit deeper than it should have been.

Slowly, he grabbed a chair and put it on the side of the bed. John sunk down into it. His eyes automatically scanned the machines in the room, glad to see that everything seemed to be normal.

Carefully, he reached out to slip his hand under the detective’s, his cool skin contrasting with John’s own warmer one. He was always cooler, that much the army doctor had come to realize over the years, but that didn’t stop him from gently rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand to encourage a bit more warmth into the chilled appendage. There was nothing else he could do now.

All that was left to do, was wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, apologies that it took me so long to get back to this! I'm in my senior year of high school-- things are crazy, and that's not even mentioning family & health problems. But I'm back!!
> 
> For those of you wondering, no, I am not going to frame Mary as the villain in here. I love her, and I think her marriage to John is a good thing. However, don't take this as me saying there won't be any JohnLock. Trust me, there will be-- but it won't come at the cost of Mary's good character or the baby. So basically, what I'm saying, is you'll just have to wait and see what happens! :D Trust me, it's worth the wait.
> 
> Also, just a quick notice, I changed my username! This is for various reasons, but I wanted to let y'all know just so you don't get confused. It's also my tumblr url [here!](www.bumblebree13.tumblr.com)
> 
> Enjoy!

An annoying buzz filled Sherlock’s ears as he slowly started to become aware. Moving through the dark was hard; it was thick and palpable and he distinctly felt as though he was breathing molasses instead of air. For a long time there was nothing but that. He didn't know who he was, where he could be, or why. It was not the most pleasant way to start his crawl back to consciousness.

The further he seemed to surface, the more he felt like he was tumbling head over heels, despite the fact that he couldn't actually feel either of those parts of him. The humming he heard grew louder and louder until it was enough to hurt, leaving him with no ability to drown it out. And then, as though someone had flipped a switch, the blackness around him popped and turned gray instead, the noise disappearing completely. Only a moment of absolute silence reigned before dull, muted sounds began to filter through. The buzzing was replaced with soft beeps, little pips from machines he felt he should recognize but couldn’t.

Sensation began to bleed back into his body. Little pinpricks of pain assaulted him from what he thought was his hand, his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was more clinical than personal, and he was barely warm, chilliness ready to assault him should he so much as shift. It was unpleasant, unwelcome, and he certainly was ready and willing to yell at John to get him another blanke-

_ John _ .

The name slammed full force into his thoughts, stopping any other processes or ideas he might have had. Of course,  _ John! _ Memories flooded back to him. But… They weren’t full memories. Instead, they were little snippets, snapshots from the day with nothing behind them. Tea and biscuits for breakfast, holding the violin but he wasn’t sure if he actually played it, pacing- did he have lunch? Sherlock didn’t know. And then… There had been John, for some reason, the two of them in a cab. Blonde hair, blood, something was inordinately funny, hands on his, the blaring of an ambulance,  _ John. _ And then, nothing else. Just a rush of too-bright lights and overly saturated colors blending together on a gray, distorted canvas.

Time passed like that now, with hums and a gray room and the memory of misplaced sounds. It didn’t last forever, though it felt like it might. Some time later, the gray darkened until he was left in inky black again. This time, though, it was different. He could move around in it, press forward. Through the snippets of memories that didn’t improve, Sherlock eventually became aware of pain thumping through his head. It was to a rhythm that took him several moments to recognize as his own heartbeat.

The pain grew and grew until he felt as though he should be gasping. Whatever was keeping him breathing, though, wouldn’t allow it. Irritated at that, Sherlock moved towards consciousness more forceful. The familiar cadence of voices refined itself into just one person talking, the melody of it soothing and well known.

Finally, finally, Sherlock was able to do more than just shift his mind. He felt his body more than before and  _ pushed _ , pleased that the hand not enveloped in warmth gave a bit of a twitch. It was as though a barrier had been knocked down; suddenly, movement was possible again. The detective managed to get enough control of his body to flutter his eyes open, blinking against the harsh white lights that were, thankfully, dimmed down from what he knew to be their full capabilities.

Though squinting, a quiver ran through his chest as he recognized John beside the bed. The warmth made sense as he saw strong, calloused fingers curled around his hand. The soft voice was the doctor talking, not looking at Sherlock but rather where their skin touched, a thumb soothing over the chilled flesh.

“Can’t believe you,” John was mumbling. The detective wasn’t surprised. It seemed Johnhad an affinity for talking to him when he couldn't right well answer. “I wouldn’t be mad at you if this had happened because of a case. A criminal, y’know, something I could swing my fist at. But no. Of course you, Sherlock bloody Holmes, had to have a cyst by your brain.”

Another twitch of his free fingers and Sherlock swallowed heavily. He realized absently that he had oxygen tubes in his nose tickling his cheeks and the beeping was from the machines that seemed to surround his head-- the sensations that he hadn't managed to recognize when still pressed under the oppressive mask of unconsciousness. Managing to get his lips to work, he took a deeper breath of the sweet oxygen, then rasped out, “Joh’...”

The detective swore he could have heard the crack as the good doctor’s head whipped up. “Sherlock,” he breathed, leaning forward. Even through the haze that still clouded Sherlock’s head, he could see relief etched into the other's face, a tension draining away from his muscles. “You're awake. That's- that's good. That's really good.”

“Wh’ ‘appened…?”

The thumb that rubbed over his knuckles pressed a little more, pressure increasing just slightly. “You had a blood clot,” John explained. “And a bloody cyst. But you still have that. The cyst, I mean.” The man looked around a moment before grabbing a piece of paper. There was a copy of a CAT scan on it, but Sherlock’s brow furrowed when he saw a large, black blotch on the right side of the scan. Somewhere it clicked for him that it meant whatever it was, was actually on his left side. “That’s you. Right now, that's you. Or-- it's in you. A cyst, Sherlock, a bloody primary arachnoid cyst. How the hell did no one ever catch it?”

The look on John’s face was all he needed to realize that the man already knew-- most cysts like this went undiagnosed as the majority of the people with one didn't show signs to indicate its presence. Certainly, with the way the detective acted, there was no reason to perform a scan like this. Without symptoms and without having ever sustained an injury that might have required a scan, it was very easy to miss it. John was a doctor after all, of course he would know- but he was still human. And certain questions would be asked by even the most knowledgeable of doctors. Not to mention that if Sherlock knew about this condition, John most definitely did as well.

A soft breath passed through his lips. Sherlock’s hand turned so that he could twist their fingers together, searching out that little bit of comfort that he could. The motion did not make John draw back, though it did garner a pinch in his brow and a glance down at the point of contact. The scan was placed back on the nearby table, quickly forgotten about. “How are you feeling?” the man asked after a couple of quiet moments, worried eyes roving over his former flatmate with unconcealed concern.

He opened his mouth to answer but a cough wiggled its way out before he could, the weak thing rattling his chest as though it were nothing but a child’s toy. John’s muscles tensed; the detective got the fit under control as quickly as he could to hopefully prevent any sudden lurch towards the nurse’s call button. “Thirsty,” he gasped out. Immediately, John leaned over and grabbed a small cup from the same table he’d placed the scan on; with steadier hands than Sherlock imagined he might have had should their positions be switched, a small pink straw was maneuvered between his lips.

“Small sips,” the army doctor directed gently, watching carefully to make sure Sherlock didn’t accidentally choke himself on the liquid. “There you go. Just take it slow.” Half the water disappeared before the cup was taken away. Tongue no longer feeling like an old piece of leather, Sherlock settled a little more comfortably against the scratchy hospital pillow, eyes fluttering just a bit.

“I wan’ t’ go home…” he mumbled, turning his head to the left side to rest. Immediately he regretted the action; a flash of silver hot pain raced through him, his body jerking faintly as his mouth opened to draw in a ragged gasp.

John’s fingers abruptly splayed across his chest. How had John gotten up so fast to hover him while being silent enough that Sherlock hadn't realized it? “Sherlock,” he said quickly, tension in his voice. “Sherlock, relax. You can’t turn your head that way. That's where they opened you up. It’s only going to hurt you if you do that, ‘kay? Lay still or turn to the right.” There was nothing else to be done about it. The detective did as he was told, pressing the opposite cheek into the starchy pillowcase, breathing hard through his nose. Eventually the pain faded away, but he couldn’t help reaching a hand up to touch the tender area with as much gentility as he could muster. John allowed it if only just. His fingers left his chest. It wasn’t pleasant- the touch had been comforting. But at least he returned to holding his hand. “Be careful about it,” he murmured.

Sherlock didn’t put any pressure behind his touch as he felt along the long, smooth arc of the incision from just in front of his ear to up a short distance from his temple. Stitches held the skin together, crusted blood only along the line and having been wiped away otherwise. At least his hair was still there, the patch of shaved skin only roughly two inches wide. The disturbance from taking out and returning a piece of his skull was enough to leave a divot just in front of his ear. The other side sported a similar dip as per the regular curvature of the skull, but this one was unnatural, the valley so much deeper and more drastic than the other was. He had the sudden thought that, if he wore glasses, the left side piece would be a flat surface with his skin, considering how dramatic the dip was. It was… Disconcerting. Hopefully it wouldn’t be noticeable. Wincing at it, Sherlock quickly pulled his hand down, finding it better to settle his fingers on his stomach lightly. 

“Yeah, doesn’t look too good,” John hummed softly. While there was sympathy there, Sherlock couldn’t find a single trace of pity; it was a simple comfort in the midst of all of… This. “But it’ll be fine. The doctor said you’d be out of here in a few days. Or-- well.” A bit of a grimace came over him and the detective found himself paying a bit more attention, trying to decipher what could sway that statement. “It’s um, it’s your brain, you know. So they’re going to want to check you haven’t lost any functions before you go. Y’know, speaking, walking, senses, fine motor skills, memory, stuff like that.”

Ah. It wasn’t exactly something he would like to be subjected to, but the sooner he proved himself, the sooner he could get out of here. After all, his brain was fine. It had to be fine. If it wasn’t… No. Sherlock wouldn’t allow himself the thought of that. Worrying was pointless, especially considering that he could hardly find the energy to squeeze John’s hand in reassurance, much less gather himself up to try and check his mind palace at the moment.

“Sherlock?”

Baby blue eyes blinking a few times, Sherlock directed his gaze from where it had drifted somewhere off beyond John’s shoulder back to the man’s face. There was something there-- more worry, perhaps. But what for? If the doctor said everything was going to be fine…?

“Look, normally I get that you're probably having a bit of a time processing this, but you can't do to me what you did with the whole best man thing. You had blood on your brain and you've said less than ten words. Talk to me. Please.”

Oh.

John was a doctor. He'd want to see for himself that he was up to specks. Even if it did take a moment for him to find any semblance of thought worthy to voice. “Is Mycroft…?” When he trailed off, John stayed silent. His lips pursed together to create a thin white line. Right. Full sentences were needed here. Sherlock shifted, winced, and cleared his throat. “Is Mycroft in the hospital right now?”

Some note of disappointment sounded in Sherlock's chest when John shook his head. “No. Left about an hour ago; had to go back to his office, he said. He's supposed to be returning sometime this evening.” That was better, he supposed. For all their bickering and spiteful fights, Sherlock was still frightened and Mycroft was still his older brother. He always would be.

But, not to settle on that train of thought, his eyes flickered to the door. “Mary?” Another moment of quiet, John silently goading him, and then he relented and rephrased his question. “Is Mary here, too?”

“Yeah. Outside the door, actually. I should probably go get--”

The sudden pressure on John's hand cut him off. “No,” Sherlock murmured. “No, I… I think I'd like to rest.” The mere idea of having to deal with another person was exhausting. And to frame that, he realized that his eyes had drifted partially shut. They were in rather precarious spots, threatening to cut him off from the world without his explicit permission.

The faintest smile curled at John's lips. He gave a small nod. “Yes, alright. Rest sounds good.” John made to move and, without meaning to, Sherlock gripped harder again. A thread of fear clung to him; this time, John didn't make him voice  _ this _ request. After all, neither of them were very good at this whole talking thing. “I'll stay,” he assured in reply to the silent request. “Until you fall asleep, I'll be here.”

Relief passed through him in a wave. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure what he might have done if John had denied him that. It certainly wouldn’t have been pleasant for either of them, he was sure, even though his options were limited by exhaustion, the clinging remnants of anaesthesia, and the pain throbbing at the side of his head. A faint nod, and then the light friction of John’s thumb rubbing over his knuckles started up again.

“Rest, Sherlock,” the doctor murmured. Within moments, Sherlock succumbed to darkness.

{...}

John watched as the detective drifted off. The monitors reflected that change, heart rate slowing down, oxygen becoming more level and deep. Good. That was… That was good. He stayed still for a moment longer, watching, his thumb continuing the circular motions. Hearing Sherlock’s voice again was nice, but it was dampened by the faint slurring that had still tainted the edges of his words.

He couldn’t stay there forever, though. Reluctantly, he drew his hand away, careful to be sure that the machines didn’t register Sherlock rising back out of sleep in reaction. The man didn’t so much as twitch. He couldn’t blame him either, considering what he’d just gone through. Five hours of surgery was nothing to laugh at. A soft sigh escaped John’s lips as he stood, careful not to let the chair scrape too loudly against the linoleum floor; he employed the same cautious behavior to slip out of the room, hand softening the shut of the door.

Mary was outside. John took in the sight of her, brow creased in worry, head bowed down and gaze intent on her clasped hands, lips pressed together tight, before stepping forward. The movement and the soft echo of his shoe on the tiles alerted her. Blue eyes met grey; whatever Mary saw in his expression seemed to send relief rushing through her. Before he’d so much as made it halfway across the hall she had pushed away from the wall to reach for his hands. “He’s okay?”

John swallowed, then gave a small, sharp nod. “Yeah,” he huffed, the corner of his lips twitching up. “Well-- awake, in any case. He went back to sleep. Will be okay.” A moment. “Hopefully.”

“He will be.” Her fingers laced with his, the pressure firm and understanding. A breath rushed out of John, his shoulders deflating a bit. She was there to step a little closer, the swell of her belly barely brushing against him. “John. Sherlock will be  _ fine. _ He’s not going to be felled by a bit of blood.”

“I can’t believe it. A bloody  _ cyst!” _

Her grip became a little bit tighter. “I know. I know. But he woke up. And now that we know about it, we can make sure nothing else goes wrong.”

That was true. There were ways to track this-- ways to make sure that the condition wasn’t worsening and that there was a lower risk of another blood clot. Appointments could be made, tests could be taken, and preventative measures employed. There was no reason (barring a case of catastrophic self destruction on the part of Sherlock’s body) that they would have to go back through this. And that, unfortunately, was most definitely possible.

“Neurologist said that if this happens again, they’ll have to put in a shunt to drain the fluid.” If she hadn’t been holding his hands, he would have pressed them to his temples. “It’s the size of my fist, Mary. My  _ fist!” _

“John.” Her voice brought him back, stabilized him. That was one reason why he loved her-- she was a grounding force, keeping him from drifting too far out of himself. “It’s going to be fine. Just trust me about that. Alright?”

A second of hesitation, and then he nodded. “Alright.”

The corners of her lips curled into a soft smile. “Phone Mycroft. I’ll go out to the waiting room and pass the news to Greg.” Mary snorted, little crinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes. “I can’t believe that he told the chief superintendent to sod off.”

“He’s been here the whole time?”

“Yep.”

“Damn. Right. I'm going to have to ask the history behind those two some day.” There had to be a reason, after all, why the detective inspector would sit in a hospital for long over five hours for a man that simply helped him solve crimes. Yet, John's curiosity would have to be sated at a later date. He slipped his mobile from his pocket-- still with roughly twenty percent battery, thank goodness --and selected Mycroft's contact. He leaned up against the wall Mary had vacated as she headed off down the hall.

Mycroft picked up after the first ring. Eager to stay updated on his brother’s condition, John hoped. “Doctor Watson. Is all well?”

“Yeah, actually.” He closed his eyes, letting his head tilt back to press against the solidness of the wall. It was grounding, keeping him in the moment instead of allowing his mind to shift back to the crime scene and what had happened there. “Sherlock just woke up, ‘bout five minutes ago. Went back to sleep, but he was awake.”

“Ah. Good. I suppose there’s no need for me to come down yet, then?” If John wasn’t wrong (though he often was in terms of the Holmes family, so who knew) he could detect a faint edge of worry to Mycroft’s voice. The idea was only buoyed by the tiniest taint of tiredness in the words. Likely (again, if John wasn’t wrong), the man hadn’t slept at all during the night.

“Probably not. It’ll be awhile before he wakes again, I think, considering the anesthetics they pumped into him. Damn idiot. His drug history made it hell on the anesthesiologist.” A soft sigh escaped him; John’s fingers found their way to his temple, rubbing to dispel the tension there, the action ending up entirely ineffectual. “I’m going to guess that you’ll visit tomorrow, then? Or the day after?”

The briefest of pauses punctuated Mycroft’s attempt to feign careful consideration. “Yes,” he finally said. Even John could tell that he meant it, that it wasn’t the exasperated and obligatory relent of a man with more important things to do. “As soon as he’s lucid for an hour, I’ll be there. Just-- keep me updated. Yes?”

Had this been any other context, John would have laughed. He would have tried to document this, to put it to paper, that he was privy to the mighty Mr. Holmes’ concern. But, like every other time he’d been subjected to it-- the overdose on the airplane, the night of the cabbie’s death, John’s own apparent kidnapping just so that Mycroft could offer a bounty for information --he found no humor in the situation. Though the man couldn’t see, he gave a short, firm nod. “ ‘Course,” he promised. The brothers may not have been on perfect terms, but he wasn’t going to be the one to encourage further distance between them. “I’ll let you know whatever comes up as soon as I can.”

“Good.” Another pause, then, “I’m sending you Anthea’s number. Let her know if there’s anything you need. Think of it… Well. Think of it as my thanks to you.”

John’s lips curled up ever so slightly. “Ta. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Goodbye, Doctor Watson.”

“Cheers.”

The soft click of the mobile signaled the end of the conversation. Slipping the device back into his pocket, John angled his head back, letting out a deep breath. He allowed himself only a few moments like that, eyes closed, trying (and failing) to loosen the tight knot in his chest, before he pushed himself away from the wall, spine straightening. He didn’t have to put any thought into it as his feet led him straight back to Sherlock’s bedside.


End file.
